


Stitch us together with golden threads

by Silberias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow knows some things, Podrick and Bronn were Tyrion's babysitters and you know it, Podrick and Sansa are dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 02:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: Podrick is mending his pants, Sansa decides to sew him some new ones.





	Stitch us together with golden threads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueCichlid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/gifts).



> A happy little Podsa story for BlueCichlid! I hope you enjoy it, it was fun to write. :)
> 
> Please don't take the Bowie lyrics as being doldrum-dark, I think of the song as a very Sansa type song and you'll take that from my cold dead hands.

 

> Your country's new  
>               Your friends are new  
>                                                   Your house and even your eyes are new  
>                                               Your maid is new and your accent too  
>  But your fear is as old as the world
> 
> \- _Love is Lost_ / Bowie

* * *

 

“You can sew.”

Podrick squawked and tumbled off the stool he’d commandeered for himself for the afternoon. Above him stood Lady Sansa, standing wrapped in her fur cloak with snow in her hair. She looked like—she looked like a princess from a story. Right now her eyes flicked between the breeches and needle he had in his hands, a twitch of her lips showing her amusement and regret at his reaction to being caught off-guard.

“I—” His good pair of breeches had worn a hole near the groin and the other set were just a bit too threadbare to be comfortable anymore. When it was washing day he could hardly wait to get his good pair back—though he did not want to bother the overworked washerwomen with asking them to fix the holes in his clothes.

“Lord Tyrion?”

Podrick’s shoulders sank in relief at her sparing him the long explanation, and a wry smile touched his cheeks as he stood up and righted the stool.

“Lord Tyrion.”

She laughed, turning to pull a bench from under a nearby table, arranging her skirts and cloak to sit nicely as she settled near him. Lady Sansa lifted an eyebrow with mock imperiousness as she reached out her hands to take his project from him. Podrick clutched at the worn fabric for a moment before yielding to her wish. Being Lord Tyrion’s squire, and then later…whatever he was for Brienne—squire, burden, jester—had taught him there was no arguing with people like her. Not that Lady Sansa meant to be cruel, none of them meant to be really, but it was still embarrassing.

Living here in Winterfell, appointed by Brienne to see that Lady Sansa remained safe, left him certain of his place in the world and it was not a good one.

The Paynes were still loyal to House Lannister, so he could not return to them even if he’d wanted to.

Lord Tyrion had disappeared, or died, and any help he might have once been was rendered null for the fact that he was suspected of killing his king.

Brienne was far from her home—and that home was closer to King’s Landing than Podrick liked.

Making a life here in Winterfell as a steward or a guard was likely going to be Podrick’s lot in life. It wasn’t all bad, the Starks looked after their own fiercely if sometimes naively. King Jon was hard but he was brittle, while his lovely sister was strong like the willows outside of Oxcross: she could bend with the wind and survive the storm. Lady Sansa was the only one who was hardened in the ways that people in the south were.

But that hadn’t made her cruel, and it was with this thought that Podrick handed his sad holey breeches to a king’s sister. He bit the side of his tongue though, watching her inspect the stitches and tut over repairs he’d made to the garment in the past. In the afternoon light, weak and half-blue, her hair seemed to glow. She didn’t like the title of princess and chose Lady Sansa for those who knew her, and Lady Stark for those who didn’t.

“These don’t fit you, they can’t possibly,” she murmured, folding the legs in half and measuring them against her arm, “Podrick…” now her eyes, startlingly bright, met his and there was something a bit shy in them.

“You can ask—you are—” her words were failing her, something Podrick very rarely remembered of her in all the time he’d been acquainted with her.

“It is burden enough having a guard who cannot fight properly, my lady,” he said softly, reaching for the breeches to return to his stitching. Her fingers clutched tight though and he wasn’t going to get in a wrestling match with a lady over breeches so Podrick let her keep them. Starks would do as they liked, he’d learned.

“At least—I don’t,” she realized she was becoming flustered and took a deep breath, “you are a member of the household and I will not force you to do anything that dishonors you or your pride. But please, allow the King to make a gift of some clothing more suited for the winter. These breeches will not keep you warm, and it will reflect badly on how I manage the castle for any member to be so ill-attired or cared for.”

Dumbfounded, Podrick couldn’t help but nod.

* * *

 

Lady Lyanna Mormont was as swift with a needle as she was with her mind, and though she was visiting to treat with her king she kept Sansa company for an hour or two each day. There were always socks needing darning and shirts needing patched and there were few hands more skilled than theirs in the keep. Today Sansa could feel the girl’s eyes on her as she embroidered a muted take of the chequey of House Payne on the breast of a tunic that would go to Podrick when it was finished. They rarely talked of their projects, thank the gods, and rather on the state of the North and the goings on both above and below their territory. But now Lady Lyanna took interest in what Sansa worked on.

“I would have thought he would take your colors, not keep his own. All we heard of House Payne was that it was a man of their house who took Lord Stark’s head. He ought to take up Stark colors.”

Sansa frowned and met Lady Lyanna’s gaze. The girl’s eyes were steady and dark, like Jon’s, and didn’t waver even as the moment stretched uncomfortably.

“Or perhaps he thinks he’s to father the king’s heir?”

“You overstep, my lady,” Sansa said, her tone light and with as little threat as she could muster. It was merely rude and she’d been acquainted with the Lady of Bear Island long enough to know that that was not to be held against her. In this terrifying world where the Umbers betrayed their ancient lords rudeness was to be tolerated from bannermen who actually held to their vows of fealty.

“Perhaps you think to keep your children safe by making them unworthy to be named King Jon’s heirs.”

Finally Sansa set her needlework down and focused her full attention on her companion. She could not unleash her true feelings, bitter ones that had people like Lady Lyanna as well as Jon, and Robb, and Mother, at their source. They had not had to carefully groom their allies, they had not lived in terror and fear that each day would bring new pain or loss or imminent threat of death. Though Petyr was leading the Arryn army towards the Dreadfort and then on south to take towns and holdfasts in the name of the King in the North he was with her in all her doings. His lessons were to bend like a tree in the wind, to change course as slowly as a river, rather than become stiff and brittle like a stoneman. He was a bad man, he’d dumped her in bad situations where she’d suffered and nearly died, but unlike so many men his age he was alive and powerful—she would never, ever forgive him, but she could certainly learn from him.

Sansa did not yell at Lady Lyanna because she had need of her. She also sewed Podrick’s clothing herself because he was her oldest acquaintance these days and she needed to keep him loyal and close to her.

“The king will marry and produce his own heirs, my children will be their cousins and closest bannermen save those scions of loyal houses such as your own. It would only be after a terrible calamity that any child of mine sat as King Jon’s heir. Podrick Payne serves well and faithfully those he is bound to. By order of my mother’s sword sword he is one of my protectors. I owe him respect, both my own and that of those sworn to House Stark.”

Lady Lyanna regarded her a little longer before nodding as though she approved of the answer.

* * *

 

Podrick was thankful but mortified.

The clothing, several outfits, was not only the nicest he’d had in his life—not even Lord Tyrion had outfitted him so well—but it was only bested in quality by Lady Sansa’s dresses and King Jon’s attire. The embroidery was thick and fine, there were even a few threads of real gold to outline the coins of House Payne. The measurements that one of the washerwomen had taken of him yielded clothing that fit him like the garments of a rich courtier and not only that it kept him warmer than his previous garments had.

Brienne had left him in an uncertain place—it was she, not he, that was a sworn sword of Lady Sansa. Podrick was just the squire, fit to be a good steward and not much more. Stewards who dressed this well were puffed up ponces in his experience—better they pay more attention to their duties than their hemlines. It didn’t make him a good Westerlander but Podrick had never been much good at that in general. Perhaps that was why Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa seemed to like him so much.

“I had wondered if she meant the gold thread for you,” King Jon’s voice, low and accented drew him from his reverie as he watched the snow come down in one of the lesser courtyards. Podrick sketched a quick bow, respectful but not ostentatious, and returned to his view. The King in the North did not demand people wait on him hand and foot, instead there was a stern humbleness to him that drew northerners to him like moths to flame. He made conversation slowly but comfortably in private moments like these, though otherwise he guarded his words.

“It is too much, even for the Lord of House Payne.”

The King laughed, stamping his feet on the cold ground for a moment.

“She cajoled a few spearwives to get her some wolf pelts to make a cloak and she lined it with black fox fur, do you remember? And that was when I was just the bastard brother, returned from the dead. Her gifts are abundant, it is why so many think to take advantage of her.”

“Your Grace, I—”

His companion waved down his protest, an amused noise coming from him instead and then:

“You have followed her across half the world with those who sought to give her safety. You are not one who takes more than is offered or without asking. You are,” here there was a pause where Podrick found himself holding his breath, “you are perhaps the only person she truly trusts anymore. I betrayed her trust by ignoring her, months ago, though she is good enough not to abandon or see me deposed for it.”

Podrick felt suddenly deprived of speech. These were not things a king shared with a steward or guard. These were things that were not even to be spoken between friends. Family, and then only maybe—

“Would you court her, if you were given leave to?”

“My king, I—my cousin took your father’s head, she could never—”

“You were not there, you were not even truly a man yet. Trust me when I say my sister would not put golden threads, nor would she take care to have such even and firm stitches, on a tunic meant for someone she disliked in the least.”

They both stewed on that in silence for a good while, and the wind picked up enough that Podrick had to be thankful of his new breeches. They were warm and thick against the wind.

“It would embarrass more than me to have her remember my place for me—only for you to inform her that you’ve taken her choice from her. She is sister to a king, your Grace, I only beg that you treat her as such.”

It was a statement that needed a heel-turn, sweeping away with a billowing cloak but Podrick held his ground. He had never been the type to storm away after opening his mouth.

“And if I said I came here on her orders, to hear your answer without causing her the embarrassment of asking?”

Podrick flushed, he was sure, from toes to ears at the idea of Lady Sansa deciding on him. He’d watched her, when they’d been part of Lord Tyrion’s household, and admired her sweetness and mourned her sadness and isolation. Her only companion was her handmaiden, the only others she saw when she was away from court were Lord Tyrion, Ser Bronn, and Podrick himself. The Queen excluded her, and the Tyrells only sent for her when they wanted to appear magnanimous and gentle. There were no other ladies she kept company with for none would have her as their friend. Her marriage to Lord Tyrion for the most part shielded her from King Joffrey but there were still scary comments he felt free to make about his ‘aunt’ and uncle.

She had been through a crucible of pain since those warm and dangerous days in King’s Landing but had gathered her broken pieces and put herself together again—perhaps she’d never actually even broken, that was only known to her though.

“Would she meet me in the godswood, to talk where we won’t be overheard?”

“Aye, I will let her know. Today, say in an hour’s time?"

* * *

 

Sansa was not embarrassed to sit in front of the little reflecting pool. It was the place where her mother and father had so often spent quiet time together. The coldness of the air pinched her cheeks, leaving a fetching rosiness to her face. Not that Podrick would care too much, she decided, given that he’d seen her at some of her very low points.

Lady Lyanna had put the idea in her head and she couldn’t leave it, though perhaps not in the manner that the Lady of Bear Island was getting at. There was no doubt in her mind that Lady Lyanna was positioning herself to be the natural choice for Jon’s wife once she was old enough, and questioning the status of Sansa’s children in the line of succession was a natural move. Jon had promised that he would not sell her off to get heirs for himself, he had promised she would have her choice—when and who to wed, or to wed again at all. He had not promised her someone good, gentle, or brave as their father once had, instead he trusted her to find the right companion.

Podrick was loyal and intelligent, he did not stay close to herself and Jon out of ambition but duty. She felt she could trust him, trust him to keep her secrets and respect her person.

It was an embarrassment to ask him to marry her outright—he knew his place in the world and was not ambitious to change it too much. If she asked him he would refuse her. If Jon commanded him he would never stand tall with self-respect, always doubting himself as the goodbrother to a king—he would be little more than a prize or plaything. Sansa would never condemn him to such dishonor, but she knew he would never dare court her on his own.

The thing had been to quietly research how he felt, and her relief had been palpable when Jon had gone along with her plan. Tears had flooded her eyes for a brief moment when her brother returned to her solar to let her know when and where Podrick would meet with her. Jon’s eyes were a little sad but he still kissed her forehead before she headed out of the keep and towards the godswood—there would likely be no such marriage based on years of trust with someone who was content with their lot in life, especially if he were to wed Lady Lyanna.

Podrick’s boots crunched through the snow, his cloak shushing along behind him, and his eyes were bent down as he focused on not tripping over any roots concealed in the snow. He was handsome not in the way of dazzling knights like the Kingslayer or Ser Loras were but in the manner of steady familiarity. She’d grown to know his face, to see the beauty in it.

“My lady,” he greeted, coming to a stop in front of her, slowly kneeling down and then scooting to sit next to her. Sansa reached and took one of his hands and gently laced their fingers together.

“My lord,” she replied, biting down on a smile for only a moment before she realized a similar one was tugging at Podrick’s lips—it brought out a sharp laugh from her with giddy chuckles from him. He untangled their fingers and put his arm around her shoulders, laying his cheek on her hair.

“If you aren’t embarrassed to wed a squire who can’t even cook or shoot a bow, my lady, I wonder if I might ask you for your hand,” he said, his voice low and warm. He had a westerlander accent, though like her own northern one it had faded from years in King’s Landing.

“So long as I am not taking from you more than you can give, I would be happy to accept.” He was silent after her declaration, taking time to think it over properly, and then he shifted away a little—turning her in his arms so he might look at her face. One hand delicately rose to brush a few flyaway hairs from her face, his eyes somber now as he stared at her. Sansa held her breath, watching and waiting, while he decided.

“May—may I kiss you? When we say our vows may I kiss you?”

The tears from earlier threatened her again with spilling over her cheeks and Sansa had to quickly blink them away as she reached to bring Podrick towards her to press her lips to his. It only took him a moment to find his footing, his kisses slow and intentional and toe-curling.

“I suppose that’s a yes then,” he mumbled, bumping his nose against hers before hitching her whole body nearer to his and holding her tightly. Sansa giggled, something she rarely found herself doing in the last few years, and hid her face in the crook of his neck. To think this had started over holey breeches—though she couldn’t regret it, not when it seemed about to make her so happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how you liked it!


End file.
